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Their dust in peaceful silence lies,
Beneath a turf or sculptured tomb;
But from its lonely bed shall rise,

And shine in renovated bloom;
To join the heavenly choir above,

With golden harps to gladness strung,

To celebrate redeeming love,

For ever Young.

EPISTLE TO DELTA,

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, 1826.

LAST night, I lay with aching head,
While sleep had from my pillow fled;
With brooding cares my bosom burned,
And restless on my couch I turned;
I pensive mused on days gone by,
Life's sunny morn and vernal sky,
Where, if a cloud were seen to lower,
It vanished with the April shower;
When, blithe as linnet on the thorn,
Light-hearted still I hailed the morn.
I thought upon my native glen,
Which I shall never tread again;
On Clochton's creeping, limpid stream,
The haunt of many a youthful dream ;
Where I would oft, when closed the day,
Delighted in the moonlight stray,
And linger long, alone, unseen,
In shady grove or meadow green;
Haply, my fancy wandering far,
Beyond the twinkling vesper star;

Or fixed, perhaps, on objects vain,
With day-dreams floating o'er my brain.
Yet still it seems a hallow'd spot,
By memory ne'er to be forgot;
The fond remembrance can impart
A chasten'd pleasure to the heart :
Scenes ever dear! for it was there
I first beheld the rural fair,

For whom my rustic lyre was strung,
And, fondly list'ning as she sung,
Lived in the radiance of her eye,
Heedless of all when she was by:

The summer-flower less sweet and fair

Than lovely Laura, smiling there.

While musing thus, I turn'd and toss'd, And thought how fate my dreams had cross'd, The fairy visions swept away,

Like mist before the star of day;

How lovely summer, short and sweet,

Had scatter'd flowers beneath

Autumnal fruit untimely torn,

my feet:

And on the sweeping tempest borne ;
Spring, Summer, Autumn, ever past,
And dreary Winter come at last,
With scarce a gleam of light to cheer
My desolated, closing year.

;

Such thoughts too oft prevent repose,

And now forbade my eyes to close.

Yet, brooding o'er my hapless fate,
My feeble frame and helpless state;
How Time, with stern, relentless hand,
Has ravaged Friendship's fairy land;
Its tenants borne to realms unknown,
And left me here to pine alone.;
I felt that fate had still been kind,
And yet had left some friends behind,
Whose gentle smiles and hearts sincere
Still tried a mourner's heart to cheer:
They seemed to hover round my bed,
And kindly press'd my aching head;
And, while they strove to chase my care,
I gladly hailed my Delta there.
While each to soothe me gently tried,
Sleep, who had erst my suit denied,
O'er me Oblivion's mantle threw,
Besprinkled with her balmy dew;
Fast lock'd in Slumber's leaden arms,
Young Fancy came, in fairy charms,
Shed round my head her haloed beam,
And soothed me with a pleasing dream,

Akin to those of happier hours,

When all my path was strew'd with flowers.

She led me where I ne'er have been;

But 'twas a richly rural scene;

Though bleak the plains, the air though chill,
Methought the scene was lovely still.

The Esk was sweeping down the vale,
And broad trees waving in the gale;
And there, my friend, methought you stood,
Or careless strayed, in musing mood,
And raised a poet's glistening eye,
To gaze upon the twilight sky,
That usher'd in the auspicious morn,

Which mark'd the day when you were born,

When lo! uprising from the tide,
A female form, in stately pride,
Flung back her flowing tresses dank,
And stood before you on the bank;
With graceful air, majestic look,
And winning smile, your hand she took ;
Then clasped you fondly to her breast,
And thus her accents soft express'd;
Both sound and sense so sweet to hear,
They fell like music on my ear:

"A Naiad from thy native stream,
Where thou delighted lov'st to stray,

I come, with joy to hail the gleam
That ushers in thy natal day.

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